As Planned
by Thriving Willow
Summary: Dean decides against being a wet noodle, opting for tenderized meat. Sam is in charge next time. Oneshot.


**Notes: Fun, fun, fun. At one o'clock in the morning, this story jumping in my head and, honestly, wouldn't let me NOT write it. So I wrote until I hurt-two in the morning-and finished it up today. It's short, and that's about all I can say about it, really. **

**Disclaimer: I aspire to one day own Jared and Jensen. And then I realize that that's probably illegal. So none of it's mine, m'kay?**

**Another Note: I lack a beta. So things may be scary. Just a warning for ya. Although a beta would be, like, cool or something...*daydreams***

**Warning: I may have sprinkled a few bad words in. Sorry?**

Dean pulled for all he was worth. He dug his feet in as deep as they would good—which, really, wasn't very far—and yanked.

"I got good news and bad news," Dean grunted in the general direction he thought his brother was in. Why? Why, why, why? Seriously, Dean's life was cursed. But despite the rapidly deteriorating situation, Dean wasn't giving up that easily. Last name was Winchester, after all.

He bunched up his muscles, ignoring the way they were already burning, and pulled again.

"Wonderful. Bad news first." Came the breathless and slightly sarcastic reply. Dean wanted to twist around and make sure Sam was really okay with his own two eyes but he only tightened his grip and put all his weight into the next heave. Sam _had _said he was fine only two minutes ago.

Still. It was like not being able to scratch a bad itch.

"Things aren't going quite as planned,"

Over the constant grumbling roar, Dean heard a groan. "Dude, when do things _ever _go as planned?"

Dean was about to give a witty reply but was cut short when his arms were nearly yanked from his sockets. With a gasp, he released the steering wheel. The wheel twisted sharply, and the large car nearly flipped on its side, the turn was so abrupt.

Dean held onto the seat for dear life and simply prayed that Sammy didn't fly out one of the windows. And that they didn't die. Not dying was always good.

Maybe someone was actually listening because the car teetered for a half second before slamming back onto the ground, but that didn't seem to put a dent into the highly illegal speed the vehicle was traveling at.

"I'm ready for the good news now, Dean," Sam was suddenly very close, his face right behind his seat. Dean twisted the best he could without letting go of the armrest—at this point, it was the only thing keeping him from flopping around like a wet noodle, and Dean wasn't interesting in being well-cooked pasta—and spotted a slightly worn Sam clinging to his headrest.

"What?"

"The good news. I could use some right about now," Sam rattled, the bumpy car making his voice vibrate.

"Oh. Right. We're gonna have to jump, Sammy boy,"

Sam's eyebrows jumped onto his hairline. "Jump?" His voice shot up an octave, but that might've been because the car had chosen that moment to dance over some monstrous potholes.

Dean waited until his brain stopped bouncing off his skull before answering, "Yeah, well, we've sorta run out of options and, if my sense of direction is correct, which it always is, we're headed for a nasty cliff. That has water at the bottom." Plus, Dean was getting motion sickness and being sick in a confined space with Sasquatch was not flying well in Dean's book.

The car made some pretty not normal sounds right then, but Dean was pretty sure he heard Sam say "How is that even good?" and "Your idea of good news _sucks,_"

"Sorry, bro, but we gotta do what we gotta do,"

When there was a slip-second of _not _being tossed around like a rag doll, Sam managed to squeeze himself into the front seat, squirming until he was holding onto any and all solid surfaces. Not for the first time in the twenty minutes they'd been locked in the possessed ancient van, Dean felt sorry for his kid brother. Being so tall in such a not tall environment was probably not the best thing for his brother's head at the moment.

"And your sure cutting the wires isn't gonna stop it?" Sam whined, scrambling to protect as much of himself as he could.

"Dude," Dean said, and held up the wires that he'd manage to yank out of the steering wheel. "_Possessed, _remember?"

"Well, jumping's going to be a bitch."

Just thankful it was still daytime, Dean glanced outside again. The terrene was getting worse, and wasn't getting better any time soon.

"Deal with it, Samantha, cos' we're jumping. On three," And Dean gripped the door handle, praying that all would go well, because this was it. Do or die.

"Three?" Sam sounded startled but they _really_ didn't have time for this.

"Two,"

"But nothing ever goes as planned—"

"One!" Dean flung the door open and tossed himself to the wind, hoping what was left of Sam's brain would be enough to keep Sammy going.

There was a lot of rocks—no, dirt clumps—and uneven ground, which wasn't too fun, and _ouch, _he was getting to old for this kind of crap he decided as a particularly bad bump made itself known right between the shoulder blades. He pulled in on himself even tighter.

This wasn't his first time jumping out of a moving car—once when he was seventeen, drunk and stupid, and again here and there—but it never seemed to get easier. His stomach still rioted, his skin still stung, and the ground still hurt.

His finally stopped rolling, and if he didn't have true motion sickness thirty seconds ago, he definitely did now. He blinked a couple times, trying to get the grit and dirt out of them, and winced at the bright light. Groaning, he wobbled to his feet. He may have avoided feeling like soggy noodles but, honestly, tenderized meat wasn't much better.

"Sammy?" Dean rubbed at his eyes, still stumbling a couple steps. The movies made it look so much easier—James Bond always jumped up and kicked someone's ass after he launched himself from airborne flaming cars. If only.

Everything was still spinning, but Dean forced himself to start looking for Sam because Sam hadn't answered. For a half-second, Dean saw the car flying over the edge, Sam, terrified, still gripping the headrest. But then the image disappeared, and Dean lurched forward, chiding his imagination for getting out of hand.

"Sam!" He called, cupping his hands around him mouth.

"What?" Annoyed and tired. Grumbling and whiny, just like his Sam. Dean twisted, the knot in his stomach dissolving. Sam was there, stumbling towards him, coughing in his sleeve. Stupid dusty roads.

"Car gone?" Dean wrapped his hand around Sam's upper arm, because at that point, a stiff wind would probably send both tumbling down.

Sam nodded, gave a half grunt. "Watched it superman it over the edge."

"Think it's done for?" Dean asked, steering Sam back towards the way they'd come. With no car and miles between them and the nearest town—and the Impala—walking was basically their only option.

"The car was possessed, not a submarine. I doubt it'll be surfacing from the ocean any time soon."

Dean thought about it a second, and nodded. "Right. Well, I think that went well, all things considered."

Sam's mouth gapped open, and a strange wheezing sound came out.

Dean frowned, a little more concerned. Sammy didn't sound so good.

"Dude, next time I get to make the plans. Yours _suck," _And Sam shoved Dean away.

Smiling, Dean threw a wobbly punch at his brother's arm. "Don't be such a princess, Francis. My plans are awesome."

_Fin _


End file.
